Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Home ("I heard a sound…")

Home.

I knew my father's chimney top, Though nearer to my heart than eye,And watched the blue smoke curling up, Between me and the winter sky.

Wayworn I traced the homeward track, My wayward youth had left with joy;Unchanged in soul I wandered back— A man in years—in heart a boy.

I thought upon its cheerful hearth, And cheerful hearts' untainted glee,And felt, of all I'd seen on earth, This was the dearest spot to me.